


Just Say Now

by Laylah



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Bad Decisions, Faustian Bargain, M/M, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-14
Updated: 2008-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:36:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The array in the room is vast and complicated, stretching from floor to ceiling, and it glows steadily, as though the reaction is continually in effect. In the center of the floor is a slumped, dark shape about the size of a human body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Say Now

It is, perhaps, not entirely safe to do this alone, but advancement requires risks, particularly in the military. An official investigation would yield nothing; Archer’s study of the existing files has made that more than clear. Queries into the continued usage, re-allocation, or demolition of the Fifth Alchemical Laboratory all meet with no answer. A less ambitious man might accept his lack of security clearance and take it on faith that the current use of the laboratory is in Amestria’s best interests.

Lack of ambition is not one of Archer’s faults.

The front door is locked, but not chained shut as it should be if the laboratory is truly abandoned. The lock isn’t particularly complicated; a man with some experience in the art could pick it in — Archer times himself — nineteen seconds.

Inside, there are no lights on, but there’s a hum coming through the floor that means somebody is using electricity in the building somewhere. Archer smiles to himself, turning on the lantern he brought with him. Already this experiment has proved him right. Now it only remains to be seen what secrets the laboratory holds.

The first floor yields mostly disused rooms, thick books of records that an alchemist might be able to decipher but a layman has little chance of understanding. He’ll need an alchemist, Archer thinks. Other rooms are used for materials storage, beakers and instruments, bottles of various liquids. That could be a hazard, if any of those chemicals are volatile.

The last room, at the end of the hallway, is a large open space with the remains of a transmutation circle still chalked on the floor. It’s been smudged, but what’s left is enough for even someone with as basic an understanding as Archer’s to know that the alchemy being done here was complicated in the extreme. There is no dust on the floor, save for the powdered chalk; this room has been in recent use.

Finally, beyond the last room, there is a stairwell, leading both up and down. Archer shines his lantern into the darkness, looking for some clue which way to go. There’s nothing, no clear sign. He’ll have to just guess, then.

Secrets are best kept where they can be hidden. He takes the stairs down.

Yes, he thinks almost at once. This is where he’ll find anything worthwhile. The floor is clear of dust, spotless, and there are lights glowing further down the hall. Archer’s steps echo as he walks toward them. The glowing lights, he discovers, are part of an electronic locking system for a door, heavy reinforced steel that wouldn’t be out of place in a high-security prison. Through a small window in the door, he can see other red lights glowing steadily inside. There are faint noises, as well, scrabbling sounds and what he thinks is a low animal snarling. Chimera experimentation, perhaps? Without the combination for the lock, or even a hint where to start guessing numbers, he can’t check.

Still, large-scale transmutation circle space and illicit live animal experiments are already plenty of evidence that _someone_ must have an interest in the research occurring here. Archer turns the beam of the lantern further down the hallway, in case there’s something else in the basement that would be worth exploring before he checks the above-ground levels.

At the far end of the hall is another door, and this one _has_ been chained and padlocked shut. Quite possibly, Archer tells himself, it’s an early wing of the building that’s been rendered unsound by the passing of time. It’s a storage area for dangerous waste. It’s an experiment that was abandoned before the development of electronic locks.

It’s an irresistible temptation for his curiosity.

If there’s anything beyond the door that seems too dangerous to handle, Archer promises himself, he’ll turn back. He’s a reasonable man. He sets the lantern down so he can cradle the padlock in one hand and feel the tiny clicks of the tumblers as he slides the pick into the lock and twists. The padlock is rusty with neglect, and he’s afraid for a moment that it won’t give, or worse yet, that it might snap the delicate metal of the pick if he tries to force it. But with another few minutes’ patience, it gives at last, and clicks open with a creak of reluctant springs. The old chain slithers through the door handles and clatters to the floor, and Archer pulls until the door scrapes open.

The air beyond is cold, and it smells unpleasant, damp and moldy. When he shines the lantern into the dark beyond the door, what he finds is a natural-stone cavern, reinforced by rotting old beams but mostly just raw rock walls, glinting in a few spots where a crystal had been sheared off at enough of an angle to form a reflective surface.

This isn’t safe, Archer tells himself. He should turn around. He should find a physical alchemy specialist to come down here with him and reinforce the walls before he inspects further. Except that he’s fairly certain that security in the lab will be tightened once someone discovers that he’s been here, and he’ll have trouble returning unless he’s in a very strong bargaining position.

He takes a cautious step into the cavern. There’s no immediate sign of trouble, no scatter of loose rock or distant sound. Another step, and still nothing. The floor of the cavern slants downward slightly, just enough to be perceptible. Steps have been hewn into it at occasional intervals. There _must_ be something important here.

The tunnel comes to an end after two dozen steps, during which time it has curved around enough that Archer believes they are probably under the laboratory proper again. At the end of the tunnel is a door set into the stone — probably with alchemy, since it’s set into the rock face itself and not a constructed frame — and held shut with a thick, heavy bar.

What, Archer wonders, could possibly be on the other side of that door to necessitate such a primitive defensive measure? Perhaps, he tells himself, the city used to have a network of these tunnels, and this one was barred to keep the laboratory safe from intruders. Except that would require that the potential intruders not have any alchemic skill of their own. Perhaps this is an execution chamber for a political prisoner, or a quarantine for an experiment that went wrong and was locked away to starve. Perhaps he shouldn’t be setting down his lantern and wrestling with the bar, pushing it up until it comes loose of its braces at last and tips sideways so he can push it away from the door. His hands feel scraped, grimy. But the door is his to open.

When the door grinds open, slowly, like there are long years’ worth of rust and silt in the hinges, Archer is nearly blinded. The light coming from the room beyond is a sickly, alchemical pink, and he knows that _means_ something — the reactions he’s observed in the State Alchemist corps have all varied in color based on their effects — but he doesn’t know the details. The array in the room is vast and complicated, stretching from floor to ceiling, and it glows steadily, as though the reaction is continually in effect. In the center of the floor is a slumped, dark shape about the size of a human body.

Archer wonders if he’s discovered the scene of a murder. This, clearly, is the greatest secret of the lab, possible chimeras be damned. The question is, how much danger does it present to him?

If the array were immediately hazardous to anything within its confines, the body would be near the door, not in the center of the room. If anything starts to feel uncomfortable or dangerous, he’ll leave at once. He’s not stupid. Just…curious.

The first step into the room is almost anti-climactic. There’s no pain, no alarms; the light of the array doesn’t even flicker. Its purpose, Archer surmises, has nothing to do with him. He crosses the floor slowly, cautiously, half a dozen steps to reach the shape in the middle of the array.

It _is_ a body. Archer’s investigation training makes him immediately start cataloguing features. Male, apparently in his early thirties, tall and lanky. Dark hair, Amestrian or mostly-Amestrian complexion and features. He has been punitively bound, forearms strapped together behind his back, thighs and calves both belted together. Despite this obvious mistreatment, he shows no other signs of injury. Perhaps, Archer theorizes, there is another entrance to the room, and the body was brought in that way. Perhaps the array around them is retarding or arresting the process of decomposition. Perhaps –

“Feed me,” the body rasps.

Archer starts in shock, and looks again. The eyes are open now, staring up at him. “Who are you?” he asks. “Who did this to you?”

The man’s mouth twists at one corner, almost a smirk. “Feed me,” he says. “Then questions.”

He doesn’t look malnourished, Archer thinks. How long has he been here? “I don’t have anything with me,” Archer says, kneeling beside the man. He’s starting to formulate an offer in his head, trading information and perhaps a promise of loyalty for assistance in getting out and fed.

Only the man says, “Blood.”

“ _What_?” Archer says. He can’t have heard that right.

“You don’t have any stone,” the man says. It sounds like he’s having trouble getting the words out. “Blood will do for now.”

Archer stares. There’s something wrong with the man’s eyes. “You expect me to bleed for you?”

“Hnn,” the man says. “You want answers, don’t you?”

Archer gets up and paces around the room, looking for other entrances. He imagines the man is watching him, even though he hasn’t heard any movement. The walls are smooth and flawless all the way around, with the array glowing in broad, solid lines. “What does this do?” Archer asks, touching one of them with one careful fingertip.

No answer.

He shouldn’t be even considering this. He stops, his boots a scant six inches from the man’s face. The man doesn’t flinch. “How much blood?” Archer asks.

This time the curve to the man’s mouth is more pronounced, more obvious. “How much can you spare?” When Archer doesn’t answer immediately, he goes on hoarsely, “Anything. Even just a taste. Please.”

Archer goes down on one knee, and pushes the man onto his back. It can’t be comfortable, but the man doesn’t flinch. There’s something odd about the neckline of his high-collared shirt, like it — Archer reaches up to touch it, to be sure — sinks right into his skin, smooth black material melding with flesh. “I don’t have a blade on me,” he says. What is he doing, he wonders, seriously discussing the possibility of feeding his blood to an alchemical enigma that was probably hidden for a reason.

The man bares his teeth, and they’re jagged, sharp, like something out of a nightmare. Nothing in nature has teeth like that. “I can do the cutting,” he says. His voice has developed a hungry, sensual edge to it.

“And then,” Archer says, almost unable to believe his own audacity, “you’ll tell me what I want to know?”

“I’ll answer as many of your questions as I can,” the man says. There’s a cold-blooded focus in his expression, and his eyes, Archer realizes as he meets them, have slit pupils instead of round ones.

“You aren’t human,” Archer says slowly, “are you?”

The man smiles briefly. “You made it down here without knowing even that much? You’re going to be in trouble, officer.” The smile fades into hunger again. “Feed me.”

Archer unclasps his coat and takes it off, laying it down on the floor beside him. He retrieves his handkerchief from his pocket, for afterward. The not-quite-man watches him, lips parted, eyes focused. Archer unbuttons the cuff of his left sleeve and rolls it back carefully. “If you attempt to cause more damage than necessary,” he says, “I will shoot you between the eyes.”

The almost-man makes a harsh little sound that Archer thinks would be a laugh, if it were given full voice. “Not my style,” he says. “That’s the kind of thing my brother’s into.”

So there is at least one more of these creatures, Archer thinks. He reaches down, and holds his bared wrist to this one’s mouth.

He’s prepared for the sharp stinging pain as its teeth part his flesh. He’s _not_ prepared for the low moan it makes, or the way it fastens its lips to the wound and sucks, at once greedy and sensual. Its tongue teases at the edges of the cut, and Archer draws a sharp breath.

He pulls his hand back, blood welling slowly to the surface, black-red in the strange alchemical light of the chamber.

“More,” the creature says, trying to move, trying to lean up to reach his bloody wrist.

“First,” Archer demands, “tell me who and what you are.”

Frustration flickers on the creature’s face for a second. “I’m called Greed,” it says, “and I’m a homunculus.”

Your name suits you, Archer thinks. “A homunculus?” he repeats. Homunculi are legendary creatures, like demons, like werewolves — like vampires. Greed stares avidly at the blood running down Archer’s wrist. “There’s no such thing.”

Greed hisses, half amusement and half impatience. “There’s no such thing as no such thing.” It licks its lips. “Come _on_.”

Archer lowers his wrist again so the creature can reach. It’s strange, he thinks. Greed has _wounded_ him, and yet he feels so powerful like this. He’s more prepared this time for the sensations, for the way Greed moves, hungrily, trying to press its entire body closer as its mouth works against his wrist. Being prepared doesn’t make it less intense, though, the heady, twisted sensuality making his breath come short, making his cock stir and start to thicken between his legs.

No. He can’t lose focus now.

He pulls away again, and Greed makes a low, animal whine as its sustenance is removed. “Who put you here,” Archer asks, “and why?”

“Clever bastard,” Greed says. It sounds almost admiring, through its obvious, continuing need. “My — my brothers, and the old bitch who made us.” Brothers but not mother, Archer notes. He wonders if it’s worth asking about that, if it’s worth blood to have it clarified. “I wouldn’t be her lapdog, so she sent me to my room like a bad boy to think about what I’d done.”

Whoever ’she’ is, she must be an immensely powerful alchemist. Archer has learned some of the theory of alchemy, in order to better do his job, and the grammar of this array is so complex he can’t even begin to decipher it. “The one who made you — who is she?”

Greed looks up at him, eyes narrowed. “More, first.”

“You certainly earn your name,” Archer says. He hesitates, his wrist just out of Greed’s reach. A drop of blood drips from his wrist onto the floor, onto one of the lines of the array. The line pulses slightly brighter, and Greed hisses. “Tell me who she is, and why she would make creatures that feed on human blood.”

Greed lunges for his wrist, but it’s too weak and too well-bound to make a dangerous attempt, and Archer has no trouble pulling back in time. “Tch,” Greed says, “you an alchemist? You’re trouble enough.” It can’t take its eyes off the trickle of blood from Archer’s wrist. “She went by a lot of names, but Dante was usually in there somewhere. And we don’t feed on blood. Not usually. But in an emergency it has enough to keep us going.” It glares.

Archer wants to ask more questions, but he supposes he should reward it for cooperating. And its mouth feels good against his wrist, cool and wet. “What do you usually feed on, then?” he asks, to distract himself from the pleasure of that slow, focused suction.

As he expected, Greed doesn’t answer until Archer pries his wrist from its mouth. “Imperfect philosopher’s stone,” it says impatiently.

“Imperfect….” Archer frowns. “You mean the red stone we used at the end of the Ishvar War?”

Greed looks interested. “You had a war with the desert people?” It meets his eyes, its pupils dilated nearly round. “If you could bring me some of the stone, I’d tell you anything you wanted, and I wouldn’t even need your blood.”

“It’s not as though it’s widely available,” Archer says. “It’s a protected resource, for State — for the military’s alchemists only.” But interrogation technique is another of the things he’s been well trained in. “But I might be able to try to get some for you, if this session goes well. How long have you been imprisoned, that you didn’t know we were at war?”

“What year is it?” Greed asks. “Nineteen-ten?”

Archer blinks. A long time, if its guess is that far off. “Nineteen-fourteen.”

“Close enough,” Greed says. “About a hundred and twenty years.” It rolls onto its side to get closer to him, rubbing its face against his boot. “Come on,” it purrs, before Archer has quite managed to assimilate that idea. “Just a little more?”

No wonder it’s so needy, Archer thinks. If it’s telling the truth, it’s suffered over a century of confinement, with no contact with anyone save its captors. “If I protest that that isn’t possible, you’ll argue the point, won’t you?” Archer asks, reaching down to feed the homunculus again.

Greed moans its agreement as it drinks from his veins, and the way it moves — the tiny rocking motions as it swallows — leaves no doubt that it finds this experience pleasurable for more than just the satisfaction of its hunger.

The temptation to take advantage of its helplessness, its willingness to cooperate, is becoming difficult to ignore. “What were you made for?” Archer asks, trying to keep himself on task. It’s not difficult to find sexual partners, he reminds himself, even if Greed is more appealing than most. He tells himself it’s just the fascination of something new. “What talents do you have?”

Greed actually releases his wrist voluntarily. “What would make it worth your while to free me, you mean?” it asks. Its mouth is smeared with his blood. “Tell me what you need, officer. I could be quite useful to a military man.”

When Archer was a child, his nurse used to read him a story about a prince from Ishvar who summoned a demon to grant his wishes. In the story the prince over-reached himself and wound up killed by the demon’s treachery. Even as a boy, Archer thought the story was stupid. Surely someone careful enough could strike a bargain like that and make it stick.

“Right now,” he says, “you seem rather helpless.”

Greed manages an awkward shrug, and licks at Archer’s fingertips. “It’s the seal,” he murmurs. His tone sounds almost seductive, rich and inviting. “All the alchemy in this room is designed to keep me that way. Remove it, and I’m unstoppable. Is that what you want, officer? A soldier under your command that bullets can’t kill? A soldier who can break down doors to reach the enemy, and whose weapons are part of his own flesh?”

Archer’s balls draw tight, and his cock aches. “Almost,” he says. He pictures Greed’s rangy, muscular form in the Amestrian uniform. “I want an _army_ of those soldiers, and I want their loyalty guaranteed.”

“If I had such a thing,” Greed smiles, wide and predatory, “I’d say you were a man after my own heart.” It flexes, like it’s impatient to be free of its bonds. “Collecting an army of homunculi would take time and effort, but loyalty, at least, you already have. You’ve fed me on your own blood, and that binds me to you. I’m yours to command.”

The attention it turns on him is dizzying, and Archer almost can’t think past the hunger its words provoke. Almost. “Why didn’t your creator do that, then? Feed you her blood, instead of imprisoning you?”

Anger flickers across Greed’s face for a moment. “She neglected me for too long,” it says. “And then she didn’t want to take me back until she’d punished me for it. So here I am.” Its expression smoothes, and it gives Archer another charming smile. “She could have avoided all that trouble, if she just hadn’t gotten so attached to her new boy. Just give me a few drinks a year, and you’ll always have my loyalty.” It pauses for a moment, then purrs, “Master.”

Archer barely manages to swallow the moan that rises in his throat. He should be careful. He should ask more questions. He should wait.

He _wants_ this creature to be his, wants it so badly he can taste it. “And if I wanted you to prove your loyalty now?”

Greed writhes, smirking up at him. He’d swear it’s moving more easily, more confidently, than it did before he fed it. “You have orders for me to follow?” it asks.

Blood drips from Archer’s hand onto the array, and he remembers as it flares bright that he needs to bind his wrist. It’s tricky, winding his handkerchief tight around the wound, and he has to pull one of the ends with his teeth, but it will suffice until he has the chance to wash it and bandage it properly. Greed watches him the whole time.

“You would obey my orders?” Archer asks, reaching down and taking a grip on the homunculus’s hair.

“Yes,” Greed hisses, not fighting as its head is dragged back, its throat bared. “What would you ask of me, master?”

Archer’s hands aren’t quite steady as he unbuckles the belts around Greed’s legs and pulls them away. The creature laughs, low and inviting, when he reaches next for the buttons of its pants.

“Your soldier and your whore?” Greed asks, bracing its heels against the floor so it can raise its hips and help Archer tug its pants down. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

The smooth blackness of its torso terminates a little below waist level, with the same odd melding into flesh that occurs at its throat. Its skin is hairless, but otherwise normal-seeming. Its cock is perhaps not quite as hard as Archer’s own, but it looks by no means uninterested. On impulse, Archer curls a hand around its shaft to see how it will respond, and Greed bucks into his touch, cursing in a language he doesn’t recognize.

“Flip over,” Archer says. “I want you on your knees.”

Greed laughs, and kicks its way free of its pants. “You’ll keep touching me, won’t you?” it asks as it moves, rolling over and spreading its knees wide. “I’d hope the man I followed would be that considerate.”

After he’s already fed Greed his blood, Archer thinks that jerking it off while he fucks it is really a comparatively simple need to take care of. “You’re so demanding,” he says anyway, unbuttoning his trousers and drawing out his cock. “I expect you to take orders, soldier, not give them.”

He can see Greed’s hands clench for a moment in anger, but then it relaxes again, and its voice is calm when it says, “I won’t make that mistake again, sir.”

Yes, you will, Archer thinks. He likes the way it looks like this, spread open and available to him, arms behind its back, ass in the air. Archer strokes his cock for a moment, admiring it. “You don’t need to sound so miserable,” he says, reaching out to run his other hand over its skin and feel the contours of muscle underneath. It’s so close to human. “I’ll take care of you. But I won’t be told how to treat my men.”

“I’ll remember the distinction,” Greed promises. “You –” and then it cuts itself off, as if it really is trying to stop itself from making any more demands. Instead it just arches its back, rocking, squirming invitingly.

Archer works his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and spits into his hand. “I apologize for not having anything more appropriate on hand,” he says, and reaches down.

Greed laughs, the sound muffled by its position. “Don’t worry about me,” it says. “I’m pretty tough to make a dent in.”

He wouldn’t say he was _worrying_ , exactly, but all the same, the permission is…liberating. Archer lines up and pushes, and for all its bravado Greed makes an almost perfect wounded noise as he forces it to yield. And then, as he drives in deep, it shudders under him, as though it’s reached a climax already. “God,” Archer says, without meaning to.

“Keep going,” Greed demands. “I can go again.” It’s already rocking under him, pushing back onto his cock.

He should remind it that it’s out of line, Archer thinks distantly, but his body is following its orders already, one hand curling around its hip, the other reaching forward to hold it by its shoulder so he’ll have the leverage to really _move_ , to fuck Greed hard, because it’s hot inside and so tight, barely slick with spit — and it’s moaning, growling when he uses it roughly, like it wants to be treated this way, like it craves the brutality — like it’s the partner he’s always wanted, one that won’t flinch from him, one that will take everything he gives it and just ask for –

“More,” Greed snarls, groans, hips rocking, its hands flexing, its arms straining against its bondage — the power in its body will be _his_ , all this raw strength, all this heat and drive and need — Archer’s breath comes faster, catching in his throat as his rhythm grows ragged and harsh — and Greed makes noises that aren’t even near human anymore, panting and growling, like it’s too needy to form words. The last sensible part of Archer’s mind argues that he should do something for it, make it believe he cares about its satisfaction, and the rest of him wants to feel the way it tightens down around his cock when it comes. He reaches down to take hold of its cock, to stroke it fast and hard as if it were real –

And when Greed comes for the second time, it feels so good, so tight and hot and immediate, that Archer can’t hold out any longer himself, gritting his teeth and shuddering, trying to keep silent, trying to keep control — it’s already almost more than he can stand, the force of it leaving him weak and trembling, slumped over the body of the homunculus.

After a moment, Greed laughs. It sounds weak, probably as shaky as Archer is himself, but the sound is pleased and warm. “Satisfied, sir?”

“Quite,” Archer says. He lets go of its cock, realizing as he withdraws his hand that it’s not wet; apparently there are limits to how closely the homunculus approximates humanity. “And you?”

“Better than I’ve been in years,” Greed says, which isn’t quite the same thing, but Archer appreciates the nuance. “Now, are we ready to leave?”

Archer smiles, rocking back to pull out. Greed hisses a little, but it appears to be uninjured. “I think we are, yes. You’re ready to go, aren’t you?”

“I’ve been ready for years,” Greed says. “Sir.” The terms of respect clearly don’t come naturally to it, but it’s trying.

“I’m not surprised,” Archer says. He tucks his cock back into his trousers and buttons up, then reaches for the bonds on Greed’s arms to free it.

The noise Greed makes when its arms are freed is almost human, probably the best approximation it’s made since it first began to speak — it sounds honestly relieved, grateful for its freedom. It rolls its shoulders experimentally, and stretches its limbs, rising to its feet almost gracefully. It pulls its pants back up, and buttons them — and then staggers, falling to its knees.

“Fucking seal,” it mutters, and looks up at Archer, its expression wry. “Help me out of this room?”

“You’ll start earning your keep after that, will you?” Archer asks, as he reaches down so Greed can get one arm over his shoulders. He helps it to stand again, letting it lean against him as they stagger toward the door. It feels solid against his side, muscular and warm.

The difference that it makes when they leave the sealing room is immediate and enormous. Greed straightens, no longer leaning on Archer to hold itself up — though it doesn’t let go of him, grinning in his direction as they step into the dark tunnel that leads back to the laboratory. “Much better,” it says. “Let’s get out of here. Day or night outside?”

“Near midnight,” Archer says. He picks up his lantern, turning it on the path ahead of them, though Greed seems to have no problem navigating in the dark. “You’re looking forward to seeing the sky, I imagine.”

Greed nods. “Among other things,” it says.

Archer leads the way to the stairs. “I’m afraid we’ll need to delay a few more moments,” he says. “I don’t expect to have another chance to investigate here, and I want to see what’s being kept aboveground.”

“What’s a few more minutes, after a hundred and twenty years?” Greed asks, as they start up the stairs from the ground floor to the second. He hasn’t let go of Archer yet.

“Your patience is admirable,” Archer says. He pushes open the stairwell door, and turns the lantern down the hallway beyond.

Greed makes an amused noise, and lets Archer go. “My patience is paying off,” he says. He takes a few steps down the hall.

“What?” Archer asks. That doesn’t sound good at all.

Greed stops at one of the doors on the hallway, puts his shoulder to it, and shoves. The door gives with a splinter of wood, and light spills from inside — red, alchemical light. “Oh, _yes_ ,” Greed says. “Paying off handsomely.”

Archer reaches the door just in time to see Greed’s hands turn black and clawed, in time to see it make a fist and smash the glass of a giant containment vat. The liquid inside glows a sick crimson, like the seal in the basement, like the red stone from the Ishvar war. Greed catches the stuff in cupped hands as it spills, then lifts its hands to its mouth and drinks deeply. It moans, revoltingly sensual and completely, utterly feral.

It looks up, red fluid still running down its arms, running down over its chin, the stuff glowing and unearthly. “Care to join me, officer?” it asks. Its smile shows all its sharp teeth.

“Of course not,” Archer says. He’s read the files. He knows how dangerous that would be for a human.

Greed’s smile widens as the black covering on its hands extends, as it takes on a monstrous, hulking form that’s all claws and fangs and raw muscular power. “You misunderstand me,” it says. “I’m not asking.”

Archer reaches for his gun, but he knows, even before the first bullet ricochets harmlessly off the creature’s black, armored chest, that it won’t do him any good.


End file.
